


icefall

by elizajane



Series: hold it, and share it [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Jack pov, M/M, Pre-Slash, Prompt Fill, Skating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-02 22:59:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6586246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizajane/pseuds/elizajane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bittle trips on the ice during practice and without a thought Jack catches him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	icefall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Burning_Up_A_Sun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Up_A_Sun/gifts).



> In a weirdly meta exercise in prompt fills, this is a fic written [using a Twitfic I previously wrote](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6353677/chapters/15056128) as a prompt. Burning_Up_A_Sun read the Twitfic and requested an expanded scene so ... I wrote it. Because she's encouraging like that. *blows glttery kisses in her general direction*
> 
> Thanks to Burning_Up_A_Sun and Crowgirl for the beta. All remaining errors are my own.
> 
> All I know from hockey I have learned from _Hockey Shit with Ransom & Holster _. You're probably here because you're already a fan of[Check Please!](http://omgcheckplease.tumblr.com/) But if not, you should probably look to that.__

Jack sees -- or perhaps, more accurately, _feels_ \-- Bittle stumble on the ice to his left.

They’re nearing the end of practice and even Jack feels the beginnings of morning hunger creep in past the playback he’s got looping behind his eyeballs. Half Jack’s attention is on Ransom and Holster playing defense against them and half his attention on the Northeastern tapes he watched last night. They’ll play the Huskies on Saturday up in Boston at Matthews Arena with an unfriendly crowd in the stands.

Bittle’s just pulled away from Jack’s side in one of his sudden bursts of speed, just like they’ve planned, and like they’ve run through half a dozen times already this morning. He’s setting himself up to nip behind the bigger players and be ready to catch and flip the puck Jack sends his way while the arena’s eyeballs are all on player #1.

But even as Jack’s focused on the puck and the ice and teammates ahead of them, thinking about how this might play out against the Huskies’ defense, Jack hears the familiar sound of a blade hitting imperfection in the ice, a sharp intake of breath -- not quite a gasp -- from Eric as he starts to go down, his earlier speed putting him a hairsbreadth ahead of Jack.

“Hey, whoa, Bits--” and Jack’s swung ‘round in front of Eric before he can think.  The puck skitters away as his stick swings wide and Eric slams into him with a little yelp of surprise. The momentum would have dragged them both down to the ice if Jack hadn’t been prepared, but he is so they don’t. Instead, Eric’s face guard just thuds -- admittedly, a bit painfully -- against Jack’s chest, and Eric’s arms fly up, one gloved hand scrabbling and yanking for purchase on Jack’s jersey as he tries to steady himself.

“ _Fuck_ \--sorry, Jack, sorry--” Eric says, breathless, words nearly lost in the ambient sounds of the cavernous arena, the voices of their teammates, sticks and skates on the ice.

“ _Oof_ \--” Jack hears himself say, partly an outrush of air from his lungs, as the weight of Bittle’s body up against his torso pushes him back across the ice a meter or two. He concentrates on steadying them both as Eric stumbles in Jack’s wake, struggles to find his footing again rather drag Jack down.

“Careful there Bittle,” Jack admonishes, quiet words swallowed up in what little space remains between them. He hears a soft affection in the shape of his own vowels that takes him by surprise. He’s dropped his stick -- _dropped his stick_ \-- with no real care and has his arms around Eric, pulling him up under the arms, in against Jack’s own chest. He’s clumsy in his gloves but Eric’s dimensions and bulk are familiar from all the hours they’ve spent here in Faber, alone together, as close as -- often closer than -- this, stumbling and falling against the boards. Usually it’s Jack’s momentum against Eric’s mass, and there’s something about the reversal -- of catching and holding all the speed and energy of Eric Bittle in his arms -- that’s making Jack’s ears ring a little.

Jack skates backward at an easy pace for a few more meters, feeling how Eric steadies himself and lets Jack lead him across the ice as if they’re dancing -- or figure skating. Jack’s watched a few of Eric’s tapes, the ones he sent in as part of his application, and he remembers how ridiculous it seemed at the time -- last August, last fall -- how he’d doubted at the time that a lithe little kid used to having the ice to himself (Jack may have, in his own mind, used the word _diva_ ) would understand the dynamic beauty of a team sport.

Fourteen months after they first shared the ice and Jack can’t imagine -- it’s scaring him how much he doesn’t want to imagine playing hockey without Bittle in his line.

Eric shifts his own center of gravity, leaning back in a practiced, almost graceful counterweight to Jack’s relieved track across the ice. As they slow, Jack looks down just as Eric looks up -- pulling back just enough to look up into Jack’s face. His cheeks are slightly flushed and his expression is ... complicated.

Jack realizes, in that moment, that his own face must betray the tangle of fond affection and relief that he'd heard, moments ago, in his own voice. Maybe Eric thinks he’s being laughed at, maybe --

 _“Zimmerman! Bittle! Let’s do this again. I have you for another fifteen before breakfast!”_ Coach Murray calls to them, brusquely, across the ice. With that, Jack releases Eric’s elbows with a tiny shove; the moment -- whatever it’s been -- is past.

But that doesn’t mean Jack will stop thinking about the expression he saw on Eric’s face. Doesn’t mean he won’t tuck the moment away to play back again, later, along with all the other mental tapes he has of Eric and their interactions, the ones that puzzle him, the ones he’s reluctant to let go, even a few he’s not sure actually happened outside of his own head.

With the thick padding of two gloves between them, Jack’s probably imagined, for example, that Eric squeezed his fingers before letting go.


End file.
